


Voices

by historymiss



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen, Oneshot, story voice meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:22:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historymiss/pseuds/historymiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to the Dragon Age Story Voice Meme on tumblr. You can find my recording here: http://historymiss.tumblr.com/post/18606046795/something-small-inspired-by-the-voice-meme-and</p>
<p>'Long after they're gone, their voices stay with him'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voices

Long after they're gone, their voices stay with him.

Being a writer means having a head already full of voices: the narrative, the notes, the part of yourself that remains detached wondering 'how can I make a good story of this', noting the exact angle and motion of the shudder of Hawke's shoulders as he cradles the body, or the precise shade of fear in his brother's eyes- but Varric never expected, all these years later, that their voices would be the ones that stuck.

They're not even his version of them: the voices he gave them were entirely their own. He does not tell the Seeker that he was just one storyteller among many. Certainly the finest storyteller, for sure (his pride would not let him think any differently), but the others had their own ways of spinning a tale.

The way Anders' voice rose with urgency as he described the plight of the mages, over and over- "You must understand, you must listen", his words like waves beating at the stones of the Gallows: angry, relentless, useless.

The day Merrill presented him with a handful of small white flowers, their roots still trailing earth, to celebrate the return of another Kirkwall spring. Because, she said, "In a city of stone you can forget the seasons, can't you, Varric?"

Never mind that this was precisely part of Kirkwall's charm to Varric. He takes the flowers anyway, plants them in a pot and leaves them in the only spot of sun that filters into the Hanged Man, a small chunk of spring among the Lowtown dirt.

He remembers Aveline's swift short bark of laughter, rare and golden and beautiful, that colours the story of some new recruits facing a singularly enthusiastic mabari charge from Dog. The way she spoke of Donnic, in simple words that spoke of love renewed, a heart big and strong enough for two.

Isabela had a talent for dirty stories, of course, but what Varric liked to hear best was how she described the sea. He still brings her words to mind when he writes: the exhilaration of standing on deck, the feel of the salt wind whipping her hair so violently she feels as if she could fly. "It's all about the buck and heave." she winks, not entirely insincere. "The feeling of power, and knowing that wind and sky surround you."

Fenris would be surprised to be described as a storyteller: he only has one tale, after all. He tells it in short, hard words to those that will listen. "Not much of a story, really." he says wryly, halfway through one card game on a dark winter night (Varric has to consciously remember the elf's dry humour, so often present only in the tone of his words). "But it's the only one I know."

Varric remembers Sebastian's endless sermons, too, though he doesn't care to. If ever there was human in love with the sound of himself- well. That one, he's sure, is coloured by perception, although Varric doesn't much care on that count.

The one voice he cannot always recall is Hawke's: the hero changes for the audience. Sometimes, Hawke is stern, sometimes angry, most often a mixture of both tempered with the kind of terrible jokes Varric won't put his own name too (even if some of them are his own creation). Always, though, Hawke speaks with power, excitement, command. All the hallmarks of a hero, tempered by the echoes of what they lost.

It never occurs to Varric that his own voice lives in his story, too: and that the words that roll off the page, rich and expansive and down to earth in all the right ways are his as much as anything related over a tankard in the Hanged Man.


End file.
